


Paved With Good Intentions

by shealynn88



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochist Dean Winchester, Punching, Sadist Sam Winchester, definitely non-con but desired, references to Dean being a sadist, references to Dean/Alistair, references to Sam/Lucifer/Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 09:06:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19331446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shealynn88/pseuds/shealynn88
Summary: Sam knows what Dean needs, and he's going to give it to him whether he wants it or not.“There were some things you left out, weren’t there?  When you told me about Hell?  They don’t start right away. They don’t just carve at you all at once.  They take their time.  They make youlikeit first."





	Paved With Good Intentions

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE thanks to my friend and beta [interstitial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstitial), who understands what I'm trying for and helps me make it happen!

Dean startles awake - _screams and fire and knives and pain and_ \- and Sam is staring down at him, expressionless in the blue light from the motel sign. 

“Sam?” Dean raises his eyebrows expectantly, thinking for a moment his brother will take the hint.

But he doesn’t. Probably wouldn’t have before, but definitely not now.

“You still dream about it, don’t you?”

Dean clamps his jaw and thrusts down a shiver. _Show no fear._ “Don’t be weird, man.” Sam without a soul is hollow, like a ghost wearing his brother’s body. He’s nothing _but_ weird.

Sam is calm. Terrifyingly calm, as he says, “There were some things you left out, weren’t there? When you told me about Hell?”

Dean can’t suppress the shiver this time, the chill that moves into his bones, his blood. Yeah, there are things he never told Sam. That he never told _anyone_. And he had good fucking reason.

Sam continues like they’re talking about the weather or evaluating weapons. Like he isn’t tearing Dean apart from the inside. “They don’t start right away. They don’t just carve at you all at once. They take their time. They make you _like_ it first. Alistair did, didn’t he? Or was that just...them? Michael and Lucifer?”

Sam is looking at him curiously, like they can have a reasonable conversation about the way Hell has warped them, and Dean feels things scrambling around his insides, threatening to claw out of his lungs, out of his eyes, through the gaps between his ribs, like he’s just a thin skin over a million whispers of darkness. 

All he can think about is running.

“I wasn’t there long, but they _changed_ me, Dean.”

Dean presses it back with an effort. He uses every ounce of willpower he has to _shove_ that gibbering, joyous darkness down. “We’ll get it back, Sam,” he tries to reassure. His voice has shards of glass in it and he’s sliding back, itching to get up from the bed to pace.

He feels fragile. Restless.

Sam takes his wrist gently, a trap as sure as iron. “Not my soul, Dean. I… _need_ things I didn’t before.”

Dean shivers again. This is a dangerous road, these are words that can’t be swallowed back down. He considers what it would take to break Sam’s hold on his wrist, to break _Sam_ , wonders how it would escalate, who would win if he took Sam down. Who would win if he didn’t.

It’s already started. He’s already going mad.

Sam continues calmly. More calmly than Dean has ever been, thinking tireless circles around the reality of Hell.

“I think you do, too. It’s easier for me. I’m not ashamed. I take what I need. But you...I don’t think you can do that.”

It’s like a fucking siren song, and these are things Dean desperately needs not to hear. Dean clears his throat and pulls his wrist free, slow and gentle. Like escaping a grizzly bear. _No threat here, just stretching my legs_. “That’s great, Sam, good for-”

Sam grabs him by the hair and as much as Dean was expecting _something_ , he wasn’t expecting _this_ \- Sam pressing his face into the ratty comforter until he’s scrambling and fighting for breath, adrenaline spiked.

“Sammy, don’t make me hurt you,” he growls breathlessly, and when he gets one of those bony wrists in his grip, he’s going to _break_ this motherfucker.

Sam laughs gently. “Not yet. You can’t ask, but I’m going to help you. You can fight if you like. If it makes you feel better. I’m gonna take care of you, Dean. Because we’re family, and that’s what family does. I don’t feel it, but I _remember_.”

The sentiment should be heartwarming, but Dean’s pretty sure he knows exactly where this is going. It will send him straight back to Hell and there’s part of him that aches for it, and _that’s_ the thing that makes him finally fight back.

He thrusts an elbow toward Sam’s nose, twists in Sam’s grip and nearly gets hold of a thumb, ready to twist and break it - but Sam blocks him easily and flips him onto his stomach, straddling his legs.

Dean feels the click of a cuff on his hand. A pull, a snap, a click, and one arm is fastened to the headboard. He struggles harder, but it doesn’t take much time at all for Sam to pin down and cuff his other wrist, and now he’s firmly affixed to the only decently built thing in the entire room. It shouldn’t be possible. He’s quicker than that. _Better_. 

But Sam isn’t handicapped with a conscience anymore, and he spent the last year chiseling himself into a death machine while Dean was working toward a beer gut, and Dean’s trying suddenly to control his breathing because this might be what a panic attack feels like and he does not have time to freak out. _Does not_. 

He pulls until he feels his skin start to tear against the cuffs, and then Sam punches him. Hard, right under his ribs, full, bruising and _too much_ ; it leaves him gasping for air, writhing. Another blow lands on the other side and Dean tries to curl up but there’s nowhere to go - Sam has control of everything.

“Sam, don’t do this, Sam, Sam, _Sam_ ,” he’s trying to reason with something that doesn’t even understand fear. This isn’t his brother and he’s going to die here like this, because somehow being beaten to a bloody pulp is this thing’s twisted way of taking care of him and Jesus Christ he really is going to pass out. 

Sam hits him again and again, symmetrical, like he’s placing bruises for some kind of Rorschach test and it’s going to tell him he’s soulless and fucked up and it won’t even matter because Sam doesn’t care about stuff like that anymore. The rhythm is steady, the sound is thick sometimes, then hollow, and sometimes it hurts too much to hear over the pounding of his own roaring pulse. He doesn’t know if he’s begging or swearing or threatening or what, and it really is like Hell, like Alistair is working him over with brass knuckles before starting in with the blade again.

“Sam, Sammy, _no_ ,” Dean breathes between blows, and there’s a pause, and Sam’s hands on him, oddly soothing. 

“I’ll be careful,” Sam promises. “Just enough. You can take a lot, right? A lot more than me. Every time, they’d do just a little bit more until it was too much. And then they’d take me apart for real, and start over, and I’d like it just a _little_ bit longer. He did that for you, right? Started slow and worked you up?” Sam pulls him up at the hip, fingers digging into bruises, and Dean doesn’t know what he’s after until Sam has a hold of him - fingers wrapped around his hard dick where it presses into his jeans - and the truth is there, and known, and Dean sobs and coughs and goes limp with shame as Sam presses him back down with a noise of satisfaction. 

It takes time to assemble words out the swirl of pain and betrayal and _want_. “Sam,” he finally breathes, coughing on saliva or blood, “Don’t do this-”

Sam holds his throat casually, squeezes until he can’t speak. 

“It’s okay,” Sam repeats calmly. “I won’t go too far.” 

The world is suddenly streaked with light as Dean gasps for air, struggles, gapes like a fish, and still Sam doesn’t let go, lets him fight, and it’s like being in Hell again except he’ll die here, and he wonders if this is really it, if, after everything, his psychotic brother will be the one to end him, trying to help him in some fucked up way that he never wanted to feel again.

Before he goes under, he wonders if he really wants to come back up.

* * *

Dean wakes to pain. Stabbing pain that he knows. _Remembers_. Really, intimately, horrifically well. His entire body aches and Sam is over him, moving thick and rough _inside_ him, and it burns, everything burns and he tries to hold back a sob, can’t quite.

“There you are,” Sam says softly, groaning as he thrusts deep and _fuck_ he’s huge and it’s hard to breathe and Dean is clamping down and struggling, and he knows it probably only makes it better for Sam - _it always did for him_ \- but he can’t help trying to crawl away, wanting to beg, wanting to die. 

Sam digs hands into bruises and Dean lets out a cry that’s half sob, half scream.

“They taught me to like this,” Sam says, pressing in as Dean takes long, shuddering breaths. His voice is soft and intimate. “Did Alistair teach you? Did he ruin you for everything else?”

That low lover’s voice sends a thrill through him that it shouldn’t. He feels filthy and used and something about that feels _good_. It puts a spark in him and that darkness rises again, gathering in his lungs like breath.

“Sam, you can come back,” Dean grits out between clenched teeth. “It doesn’t have to _be_ like this.” He’s overtaken with the slow, huge slide of Sam inside him. Taking his time now, but Jesus. _Too much_. 

“Maybe not. But I want to _see_ it, Dean. I want to see how it works for you. Wanna fuck you open and see what they did to you. How bad do I have to hurt you? I just want to know.” He leans forward, lips against Dean’s ear. “How bad do you need it?”

Dean whimpers, gives a half-hearted attempt at a headbutt and then lets his head drop. The pain is driving up every nerve fiber, making every single one sing and scream and he’s so close to losing himself.

He can’t relax enough for Sam to really fit and that slow, insistent invasion reminds him, drives him viscerally to _remember_. Forty years of relearning and rewiring pain and pleasure didn’t get wiped out in a year or two. 

It hasn’t been this good for a long time. Maybe ever. Because it isn’t Alistair this time. It’s Sam. Sam who wants him. Sam, who owns him, always has. 

“Sammy,” he whispers.

“Yeah, Dean. Jesus, you look amazing like this. Does it hurt? Is it good?”

“Yeah, Sammy. Yeah, fuck you’re so big.” It’s starting to feel almost manageable, but God, it still feels like it’s rearranging his insides. 

Sam leans forward to breathe against Dean’s ear. “You need more, don’t you?” 

Dean’s breath catches in fear. He remembers this, too. The pain-pleasure-horror of it. “No, no more. I can’t-“

“Sure you can,” Sam soothes, “I know you need it,” and he presses his fingers into Dean’s ass alongside his dick. 

“Ow, God, _fuck_!” Dean squirms forward instinctually, trying to get away, get relief, but Sam’s hand on his hip tightens, digging into existing bruises and creating new ones. Dean is impaled and helpless, and he can’t help the noises he’s making, not quite sobs. He doesn’t beg Sam to stop, but only just. “Sam, God, _ah_ -” 

He wants to beg, wants to fall apart. He bites it back. It burns like Hell, literally like the impossible stretch they’d trained him to. 

“You can cry,” Sam says, leaning back to get better purchase for more violent thrusts. “It’s okay. Just need you to stop fighting, it’s better when you’re broken.”

Dean doesn’t want to go under. He can feel it there, just at the edge, that place where pain becomes everything, narrows the world to a pinpoint. It’s where Sam wants him, where he’ll become pliant. That place where the darkness wins and spills out, where he’ll beg and cry and ask for more, more, more, until he’s filled and broken and cut to pieces, and still aching for it.

“You need more?” Sam asks softly, sliding long and slow, giving a little twist of hips and fingers to get him deep, to stretch Dean to breaking.

“No, Sammy, no more, please, no.” He’s fighting and he can’t stop because it’s already too much. The panics rolls him suddenly, and the noises he’s making turn to gulping mewls and soft pleading, half ‘ _please, no more_ ,’ and half ‘ _fuck, yes, yes, don’t stop, please don’t stop._ ’

“There you are, so beautiful, begging me. _Now_ you remember, don’t you? Now you remember what it’s like.” Sam changes his angle, yanks Dean’s head back by his hair, drives forward alternating fingers and cock and Dean can feel everything acutely, he’s relaxed, he wants it, the world is hazy with how good it is, how the pain curls into pleasure and back again, how he’s owned and trapped and can’t possibly be held responsible because he’s cuffed here, pinned and helpless and it’s not up to him. None of it’s up to him.

“Yes,” he whispers quietly. “Yes, please, hurt me, _hurt me_ ,” and he pulls and presses, wanting the feel of Sam’s hand too tight in his hair, the pain of the cuffs pulling at his wrists, the splitting horror of Sam’s cock and fingers forcing him open.

“Oh, good boy,” Sam breathes. “Look at you, gorgeous. _Now_ you can come for me, Dean. Come on my dick, I’m going to hurt you til you do. Gonna rip you up, gonna make you bleed.” He whispers it like a promise, like something sweet, like he wants it as much as Dean does. Like he _knows_ what Dean wants.

Dean’s sobbing. It’s the worst moment of his life, the best. He wants to die. He wants this to last forever. 

“You need help, baby? Need me to get you there?”

Dean nods miserably, drowning in pain and pleasure and need and that darkness which no longer feels secret, just crawls through him wherever it wants. Wherever Alistair left it. 

Sam’s rhythm falters and his hand leaves Dean’s hip for a few moments before it comes around and under him, and Dean waits for Sam’s hand to close around his dick, but instead it slides up his chest and he feels the sharp point of a blade under his chin.

“You’re gonna come for me, Dean,” Sam whispers, pressing up slowly so the knife tip digs in. Dean swallows, whimpers, raises his chin, arches his back until he can’t go any further, on the tips of his fingers, tilted back and impaled on Sam, hard to breathe his head is so high. 

Sam’s been moving slowly, but now he takes his fingers out of Dean’s ass and pounds his cock in, hard and fast, and the point of the knife slices tiny cuts as Sam drives in and Dean struggles. 

The knife bites a little deeper, and Dean feels blood roll down his neck like the trigger of a gun, and he tenses on the edge, long and drawn and coiled like a spring. He presses back, trying to take all of Sam as he comes. Sam drops the knife and adds fingers alongside his cock again and Dean screams in pain, orgasm extended and heightened, and he’s blasted apart by the intensity - drawn out pulses that snake through his entire body.

As he collapses, Sam presses him down, forcing his legs and arms flat, and then fucks him viciously, pressing his face into the mattress and snarling against his ear.

“ _Fuck_ , Dean, just like I thought, _knew_ you wanted it, Jesus. Took it so good, _loved_ how I hurt you-“ and then he’s coming, hard and deep, and Dean feels him pulsing and twitching, doesn’t bother to resist the urge to press back and take it all. 

Sam lets him up for air and then rolls off, breathing heavily. 

He takes the cuffs off and gathers Dean to him, slow and careful. He kisses his forehead as Dean tries to find a comfortable position. Can’t, yet. It’s all right. His skin is still on, and everything else will just mingle in that purgatory of pain and pleasure until the bruises heal and he needs it again.

“It’s better with you,” Sam whispers. “That was incredible.”

Dean nods against his chest. He can’t say anything yet. It _was_ incredible. It feels like a step back, but also a step forward. It’s time to admit that there is no going back. Not ever. Once you’ve been to Hell, it stays with you. You have to feed it. He can’t deny that anymore.

“Wanna hurt me next time?” Sam asks quietly, gently. 

Dean wants to say no. Wants to say, _I don’t do that anymore. I got better._

But it’s not true. He just got better at denying it. It’s still there, underneath, writhing and waiting. 

He slides up, in, presses lips to Sam’s throat and under his ear. “So much,” he whispers finally, and Sam turns to kiss him, deep and slow. No pain, now. Just sensation. Then Sam pulls back and whispers against his lips. 

“Good. God, you’re so _good_.”


End file.
